{TN}T[/A]R{K}

the next time a rousing exchange of fluids (sits in a tree)…

No, this is not about ninjas, turtles, or anyone [or any AI] called “Noah.”

Oh, by the way, typos (as well as spelling/grammatical “errors”) aren’t my fault. And any weird formatting? That’s not my fault either. You can blame/thank this (un)lucky WordPress theme that I’ve chosen has chosen me.

Listen Read. Certain blanks [gaping holes] beg for your filling, do they not?

The void inside the shell of a cannoli, for instance. Tell me the mental image currently per{for/me}ating your dome does not beckon for a generous abundance of sweet, thick, white, creamy, frosty filling.

I’m freaking out a little. Officially, I have saved the life of my renewably eventual betrothed once so far this week, but I still haven’t met her in person.

Suddenly, I’m guessing that I should lock eyes with her at least 48 hours prior to making her physical acquaintance officially to see if I reckon she might be able [albeit unwittingly and certainly via no malicious fault of her own] to, um, lower my defenses by, uh, clouding my judgment—I do not know how my brain/body responds to “love potion”—thus increasing the chances that our noodles will be sucked from our craniums like Jello from a snack cup.

Pfft. Just wait.

Let’s get novelistic, shall we? Why I asked, I do not know {except that really I do [it’s so that I could write this fun sentence]}, for indeed, even upon your failed refusal of participation, the rest of us shall!

A day after lopping off that devil’s [Faustina’s] head, I sit alone deliberately, eating a mushy pile of cool pie at family-owned-and-operated seafood restaurant (called named Dinner’s [the owner of which is a fat fella named called “Boogie”]) ten miles inland near Foley, Alabama. The HVAC direly needs an update, the decor feels frozen in the nineties, the place is a hotspot among the natives and seats about 75. According to internet reviews, it’s “always” slow during the day but packed at night.

Incidentally, who thought it would be a good idea to let any idiot sign up for internet accounts (that can only negatively affect another person’s livelihood) just to dispense (often hateful) food reviews based on very personal “opinions” [(only) by technicality; hence the “quotes”] that reek of deep-seated ignorance?

You're wrong! It's seeded!

Are you sure?

Too, have I ever claimed not to be an idiot?

The My current time is 15:00; the date may (not) be apparent. Boogie Dinner’s establishment finds itself devoid of patrons aside from an older couple ordering an early supper and me (taking my last bite of “dessert”). Man, what a name [B.D.], but I could {not to be confused with “couldn’t“} make this stuff up if I tried.

Having detected movement, I lift my head in a manner which permits my eyes to land on the remarkable vision that is Thierry Nova Tuck as she glides out of that shitty kitchen.

Why are you doing it like this?

Stop putting words in my mouth. (Just kidding.)

(No, really, don’t stop.)

Have I mentioned that she is a caramel-skinned, light-eyed mulatto enchantress with legs that never end under healthy [usually] flowing dark natural curls all the way down to the top of her bottom? I guess I must have mentioned that by now.

Before she turns the corner en route to the restroom, her eyes meet mine in a first moment that lingers until its duration elicits smiles, prompting each of us to look away shyly, but then, after a moment or two, a simultaneous second glance/smile gets interrupted a second later when she turns the corner and disappears.

At last, I’ve seen a unicorn. Fuck me.

[It doesn’t count as “using the same term twice in a sentence” {as if that should be some type of “infraction”} when each occurrence (of the word) carries a different meaning. I wonder why “second” was chosen to (also) be two’s “first,” if you catch my drift. Somebody, google that. {Remember when “google” wasn’t quite its own verb?}]

Eff your parentheses!

No.

Fuck. Me.

I think I’m about to do some light daydreaming.

Already, this has been the weirdest year of my life. Here’s to the next {99}!

“Whimsical disbelief.” Dunno how else to describe it. I mean, I knew she was pretty or whatever, but golly gee willikers—what in the flying shit? I feel butterflies in my stomach because I made eye contact with a human girl and my goddamn pulse quickened. Um, what? Am I in a romcom? Butterflies?? That’s a first. I’m sure it’s just a natural effect caused by my apparent depressed state. Maybe the coconut pie here is infused with a sadistic amount of caffeine. Making eye contact with this female sent my thoughts in a thousand directions, some of which are irrationally deep into a grossly theoretical future. I almost hope I never see her again.

My god. I feel like a creep for feeling like she and I now know each other well enough to speak. This can’t be normal. My sweat glands are working overtime. I should leave.

However, there she is again doing restaurant server crap, imperfectly beautiful soul that she embodies, bipedally locomoting, lookin’ all fine.

I don’t like when people say, “Talk about [insert any topic of widely varying specificity]!” Especially when it’s something about which no one had been talking. Example, “Talk about being a three-pump chump one day and an all-night rider the next!” But, anyway, yeah, whatever: talk about hidden treasures.

I can see her peripherally; for some reason, it seems as though I am physically incapable of looking directly at her, which makes absolutely no sense because she is the antithesis of Medusa. She seems to be coming toward me. There goes my stupid pulse again. Okay, yep, coming right at me. No idea why. Wow, I’m nervous. I don’t think I’ve been nervous since 1980 after falling into a deep well. Why do I feel like my life just sprouted an extra layer of enormous complication?

As I rapidly type, Thierry interrupts, “You wouldn’t happen to be looking for a job, would you?” Eye contact again. Reciprocal butterflies abound. I probably shouldn’t tell her that I was just “blogging” about the magical moment my warped brain thinks we shared earlier.

Casually, I improvise, “Well, um, kind of, actually.” I retract my hands from the laptop and look up.

“What kind of job are you looking for? If you don’t mind my rudeness.”

Nope. I sure as hell don’t seem to mind. No idea what’s about to come out of my mouth.

“At the moment, I’m simply looking for the kind of job that pays.”

Excellent answer, liar.

Now you're talking to yourself?

I’ll bet this is hard to follow for many. I can’t help it. Really, I can’t. It has to be this way.

“That’s so weird,” Thierry observes with an intentionally cute smirk, “because it just so happens that we have two openings at the moment that might fit your stringent needs.” She smiles because she can’t help it, and surely neither can I. “Or one opening, possibly, depending on whether you want full time.”

Why are her lips so easy for me to read?

Are you really asking me?

Of course not. But I’m supposed to be trash at lip-reading. God save me. I think I’m about to take this job for the sole purpose of getting to know her, which means I can’t rule out the possibility that I might actually believe this could be “love” that I’m feelin’ [“Albino Serpent,” anyone?] which signifies the probability that I’ve finally gone cuckoo after decades of solitude trapped in a hypnotic orbit around the event horizon of sanity.

As this goddamn-gorgeous goddess begins her first departure from my company, she takes about five steps, spins, returns to ask, “Can I see your phone?”

I comply by displaying said extension of oneself.

She giggles, confirming that I have been successful in my attempt at dry wit. “Can I touch it?”

“Sure.” Hell, you can have it.

And, by the way, she is outstanding at hiding her long-lost accent behind a subtle Southern twang.

She taps away. Glances up for more eye contact. Taps. Glances. Taps. Smiles. “What’s your name?”

“Seth Krêps.” I don’t know, okay? That’s what came out. Pretty sure I almost blurted, “Kyle Klapka.” (In case it’s not obvious, I do possess soft-/hardware that enables me to churn out fake IDs as needed.) [Also maybe this whole paragraph is code for 4 particular {rogue Bessi} operatives, and we’re planning to raid a belanockian den later tonight for funsies—who knows?!]

Thierry eyes me, and unless I’m mistaken, a coy grin verges on emergence.

What is happening? Is this a staring contest? Are we speaking aloud beyond my realization?

Oh, oops, forgot I’m not supposed to know her name yet. “What’s yer name?” Yep. I said that. By now I’m sure she has taken notice of my social clumsiness. Apparently she finds it endearing as her face exudes something that cannot be faked (well enough to fool me).

“It’s saved in your phone. See you tomorrow.”

Yep, I’m in a romcom.

For real, though. For real. What in the actual fuck is happening (to me{, you, or anyone})?

Be patient. All answers are forthcoming. Pinky swear.

An hour later, I’m alone again, but I don’t “feel” alone. I actually know someone. A person IRL, no less! I guess I forgot what that was like. We chatted for almost an hour about the most utterly random of topics such as geopolitics, Masters of the Universe, an Australian hypnotist who can talk you to sleep if you let him, (re)cycling, recurring nightmares about dogs trapped in garages and forgotten locker combinations, kites, WoW, full-body silhouettes, black coffee and{/with} neat bourbon. This isn’t happening quite as I planned {perhaps because I failed to plan it}. I took a bottom-rung job that I definitely don’t need. Or maybe I do need it. Forget the financial aspect. Maybe I need to see what it’s like to live the life of a fairly normal, emotionally college-aged, single human being. Or however old I look. I wrote “27” on my application and she seemed to buy it. (27-year-olds go to college, too, you know.) Whatever. Doesn’t matter. I look her age. Or close enough. She made the extra effort to get her hands on my phone so that she could actually save her own number in my device. And! She sent herself a message so that she would have my number. Suddenly I’m an eighth grade girl again.

Huh?

Anyway, I start my new job tomorrow afternoon. This post is probably a bit too honest. Have I been “compromised”? I feel like I’m about to laugh out loud.

I was right. I’m laughing as I type this sentence.

Oh, and I’m probably gonna decapitate Fausta approximately exactly{!} 48 hours (and 13 minutes).

You with me?

I am not a “psychic.” I’m just a the shitter who knows what’s gonna happen.

Plus, are you with me?